


Crescent Moon

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Category: Black Sails
Genre: But Enjoy Nonetheless, M/M, Not A Lot Of Plot, Post Finale, Tattoos, not a lot of porn either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 16:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: One shot of the months following the finale, with a focus on a certain tattoo.





	Crescent Moon

**Author's Note:**

> The first item on this list of [prompts](http://char7.tumblr.com/post/160572975731/fics-i-need) captured my imagination and, well, here we are. All my love to Black Sails fans/readers, who remain the best.

I.

 

He realizes he has no idea what to do. What to do, or say. Or _feel_. That it could even be a question. How many years since he was expected to know how he felt? Everything a stratagem, one foot forward to the next marker, always towards something larger, something other, something not him, and now…now…

            Now he lies on his back in a bed. He stares at the ceiling of this small little cabin, unsure of where to look or whether to move. Thomas lies beside him, on his back as well. The both of them quiet. Warm. Slick sweat going cool behind his knees. Things damp and sore and sated and _strange_. So impossibly fucking strange.

            Thomas is beside him.

            Thomas.

            If Thomas is beside him, then—then he must be James. Is that a thing allowed to him? Can he just…be that person again? Not actually _be_ that person again, there are things that cannot be undone, changes that cannot be reversed. But underneath the passage of years and sins and misery, can something remain? The smallest piece, even.

            _If he is Thomas, then I am James._

It shakes him through and through. He has nothing to say to that, and it just adds to the problem of the moment. This not knowing.

            It has been years. Before Thomas, there were no other men. After him, there were no other men. How could there have been? There was no one save… And it hurts his heart to think of her, to feel her absence, to know that she will never know, that he has this and she will never, and what is he supposed to _do_?

            They have not been able to say much to one another in the past day. Not that they have left one another’s sight. A few moments away for physical necessities became a near impossible ordeal, writ through with terror that all of this would suddenly disappear. That this would just be a dream, and the second he looked away, it might all be taken.

            And perhaps he should be embarrassed by that. Perhaps he should think himself weak. He would think it of another. Only he no longer knows himself. He can barely wrap his mind around his own name.

            They have said so little. What does one say after so many years? Instead they have looked at one another, endlessly, and James sees his disbelief mirrored in Thomas’ eyes. But in them he also sees joy, where he knows that his own likely convey fear, and a confusion that is too wild to tame.

            The night before, they fell asleep in this bed together, not a word spoken between them. James found that he could not control himself, much like the moment when this stranger who was no stranger at all turned around in the field. James had clung to Thomas as though he were the source for all things because—because how could he not? Then last night, when they retired here, and the anxiety set in, this terrible sense of not knowing, Thomas had pulled him down onto the bed, an arm beneath his neck, and James could not contain himself. He held Thomas so tightly that he knew it must have hurt. It would have hurt Thomas, the Thomas he knew, but this Thomas gripped him just as close, stroking his hair, and whispering soft hushes as James wept into his shoulder once more.

            This night, though—silence reigned once more. And Thomas initiated things, because after everything, it was still him, and of course he had, of course. James had felt as awkward as though it was all new, all firsts, and maybe that was right. He did not feel like the man he had been for all these terrible years. Nor the man who came before him, the man who Thomas had known. James had wondered, if Thomas knew, if he knew who the man before him was, what he had become, would he take pause? James had not told him. Perhaps had not possessed the courage.

            It had taken courage of another kind to go to bed with this man, to be bared to another person in such a way. He could not bear it, and he could not stop. Thomas so gentle with him. James could not remember the last time anyone had been gentle to him.

            The deed is finished, though, and here they lie, side by side. What are the words for this? What are the thoughts that bring him back into the world, away from this state of shock and incredulity? He knows this man. And does not.

            He does not know himself. And he does not know what to do.

            What is Thomas thinking? Does he wonder at how changed James is? Does he wonder if the man beside him is known to him at all? Does Thomas look at him and see anything recognizable? What questions does he have? What answers could James give that would not break this painful, perfect spell?

            There is nothing but questions. They threaten to drown him.

            He is so lost in his thoughts that he does not see the hand cross the divide between them, until fingertips press to skin. James looks down, relieved and spooked. This is Thomas, but his hands…these are not the hands he knew. Thomas had the hands of a man of letters. The hands of a man whose tools were his mind, fingers lithe and soft.

            These hands appear rigid, though their touch is light. They are tanned, like the rest of the man, with veins that speak to years of manual labour, to a man who does not shirk from the earth.

            His fingertips touch the ink on James’ arm.

            James finds that his breath hitches a second, and he looks to Thomas, insides a mixture of wariness and fear. Thomas merely looks at the small lines of ink, faded from time and exposure to the sun.

            It is not as though James thought that he could hide what he has become from Thomas, nor would he want to. He came here in the garb of a pirate, the guise of a pirate, the shackles of a pirate. All that, though, seemed to melt away at Thomas’ touch. As soon as Thomas’ hands were on him, it was as if something inside began to wake. A thing that had not crawled from the sea. A thing that had hidden, perhaps, knowing it was not safe in so cruel a world. For the past day, James has let that thing be his guide, because while it might be foreign to him, the man he was this past decade would never know what to do in this situation. This thing inside, this—hope—it might not have all the answers, but it has kept him on his feet.

            Only now James is stripped of all his costumes, in nothing but his bare skin, and here is this indelible mark of what he was. Has been. Is. He doesn’t know. All he can do is try to breathe as Thomas’ fingers and eyes study the small slip of a moon on his arm. The kind of thing only a pirate would have.

            James is not ashamed of what he has been. Still, he waits for Thomas to react to this sign of what the time between them held.

            Thomas raises his eyes to James’. The question is written all over his face. _I believe I know what this means; am I right?_

_Yes_ , James answers wordlessly.

            Thomas looks back down to where his fingers still stroke absently. A moment passes.

            He turns onto his side, towards James, propping an arm on the other side of him. Bending, he sets a kiss to the moon. Thomas brushes his whiskers against it, then kisses the mark once more.

            Thomas pushes James’ arm aside, so he can lay against James’ chest, lay his head upon his shoulder. James wraps the arm around him, shutting his eyes in exhausted gratitude as Thomas cups his cheek with that strong hand, thumb rubbing idly to and fro over his jaw. James uses his other hand to cover Thomas’, tilting his head downwards to kiss Thomas on the forehead.

            A question out of a million answered. They will not all be so easily earned.

 

II.

 

“We cannot stay in this place,” James says.

            The sun still infiltrates the cabin, but it is after evening meal. James sits on the bed, and Thomas on the chair across from it, the chair for the small desk that holds Thomas’ papers and ink and quills.

            After a week, James has seen what the plantation has to offer, and he will not be having it. It is not the work that bothers him. To work the land, to bring in the fields, it doesn’t seem a terrible life. To watch Thomas at it, so confident at his tasks, is a strange and satisfying thing.

            And it is not that he has any desire to return south. There is nothing for him there. Other parties made certain of that.

            And it is not that he does not wish for some respite. This place is quiet, yes, and Thomas is here, yes, and there are far worse prisons in which to find oneself.

            But a prison it remains. The man in charge spoke to James of nonsense, civilization defined by how it treats its unwanted citizens, a speech that had obviously been given more times than the man could recall. A prison is not any less so because the people who run it have delusions of kindness. There are still bars, and guards, and their lives are not their own.

            James is so tired that if it were only him, maybe…no. No, not even then. He would still flee this place, and maybe find some filthy tavern to drink away the rest of his days, drink away the memories.

            Only there is Thomas. Thomas changes everything.

            He has been in this place over a decade. He says little about it, only telling James what is necessary for him to know. What times things are done at, where the tools are to be found, which of the men in charge are cruel solely for the sake of it. James has asked few questions, preferring to observe. It has taken him a short time to judge the make of this place.

            “We cannot stay here,” James reiterates when Thomas does not respond.

            They still do not say much to one another. James struggles with what the proper words could be. He knows how to cajole, to berate, to manipulate. He does not know how to express the history of his grief, of his longing, or the amazement that overtakes him daily that this— _this_ is real. Instead of speaking, sometimes he finds himself staring at Thomas. Trying to reconcile that what he sees is not a phantasm. When Thomas catches him at it, he will smile at James. Then there are the times when James catches Thomas watching him, only there is a shrewdness to his gaze.

            Thomas nods once. “I thought as much.” His strong fingers weave together, resting between his knees. He does not sit like he used to either. He would always lean back. Even now, he still does, but there are times when he is bent forward like this, and it takes James off guard. A small thing to notice, yes, but he cannot help but wonder.

            “I will not spend the rest of my days a slave, no matter the euphemism these people prefer. And I _will not_ allow you to be their prisoner—not for one second more.”

            Thomas smiles faintly at him. There are lines from his eyes, and at the sides of his mouth.

            James expects him to speak, to prompt him onwards, hell, to even tell him it cannot be done. Anything. But Thomas stays silent.

            So James must speak. “There are twenty guards to fifty men. Spread out over acres. And beyond this, from what I could tell on the journey, wilderness for days. There are options.” He does not know why he seems alone in this. Thomas looks down at his hands, thumb brushing along his index finger. James waits a moment longer before he finds that he must ask. Quietly, he says, “You speak little these days.”

            Thomas lifts his eyes. His mouth does a familiar thing—a familiar thing almost forgotten, a little twist of the lips, a smile that lasts a second and no more. He nods, and replies, “I am unused to anyone caring if I speak.”

            If James could tear down every inch of this godforsaken place with the rage those words instill in him, there would not even be splinters left for travellers to wonder at in later years. Feeling a twitch in his cheek, James keeps his tone steady. “ _I_ care.”

            Thomas sits back, and rests an arm upon the small desk. He lets out a breath, thinking. “It is four years since I last tried to escape. Five since the last major attempt at outbreak of any note. I did not participate in that, as it was obviously doomed. People try every few months, but in my years here, there was—one man who got away? One who I believe truly escaped and was not simply killed in the woods by his pursuers. The others, they are brought back breathing or not.” Thomas nods towards the northeast. “Behind the house. Where you’ve not yet been. That’s where they are buried.”

            “The man who was successful—how did he differ from the others?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “How many attempts have you made?’

            “Four. Two the first year, one in my third, and then the last failed attempt. All for different reasons. The first, I was just desperate to leave the place, and thought little about the realities of situation. They caught me within three hours. My second try, I made it two days.” Thomas gestures down to his right leg, where James knows there is a scar on his calf, a scar he has asked no questions about. “The dogs found me. The third, it was myself and two other men. The one fell ill and I would not leave him. All for nothing in the end. He died a day after they brought us back here. The other man, he was shot and killed trying to steal a boat, as I heard it.”

            “And the last?”

            “Ill thought out. I saw an opportunity and took it without a plan.”

            “That doesn’t sound like you.”

            “No. I suppose it does not.” Thomas raises his shoulders. “Those were my efforts. They must seem quite feeble to you.”

            “Of course not.” He cannot expect Thomas to have done as he would have. Thomas would have no idea of how to live in the wilderness, how to evade a search party. Even after years of hard work, he knows how to be a farmer, not a fugitive.

            “It is not that I want to stay here. It’s that—I haven’t cared in quite some time. There was no reason for it. A lesson learned over a long period. But I agree. I will not see you here. Not for a moment longer than necessary. This is not what I want for you. We will go. And we will not return.” Thomas gives James a slight nod, looking at him to make sure he understands.

            James does. He rubs a hand over his head, sighing. “It makes the most sense to rally the other prisoners—“

            “No,” Thomas says abruptly. “Absolutely not.”

            Surprised, James tries to explain, “We would have strength in numbers, and the odds of escape after we leave increase if they are forced to look for fifty of us in all directions instead of two—“

            Thomas is unmoved and unmoving. “Under no condition do we set these men loose.”

            James waits for more than that. When it is not forthcoming, he spreads his hands, asking the question with his brows.

            Thomas shakes his head. “Do you think these men are all like me? Sent here for the same reason as me? Young and naïve, an embarrassment to an unyielding father? Most men—are not like my father. They would send their sons away, forever, for far greater reason than mine did. There are one or two who are here for unjust reasons, that is true, but the others—no. I will agree to no plan that involves their release. I would not have that on my conscience.”

            Letting out a breath, James says, “Sometimes—one must make deals that seem—“

            “I have lived amongst them for a long time, James. I want your freedom, yes, and desperately, but not at the cost of what those men would do to the children and women that they came across. You will not convince me otherwise.”

            And here they are. The perfect opportunity for…

            For all the things James does not want to say, but knows he must.

            “You no longer believe a man can be redeemed?”

            “I do, but certain men—they are not like the people of Nassau. Drawn to one way of life because civilization has been closed to them. There are some men who rape and pillage and murder because it pleases them. They do not want civilization. And civilization, quite rightly, does not want them.” Thomas taps his fingers on the desk, a slight furrow to his brow. “My principles have remained unchanged since last we saw one another. But they have been tempered by experience, and time.”

            _He will not want me_. It is a stark, sudden thought, and James realizes it has been hovering around the edges of his thoughts for days. Is that what he has seen in Thomas’ gaze? An appraisal? Too far removed from the man he was to even be recognizable?

            Of course he is. Of course.

            James needs a moment. He finds that he is gathering his courage, if that is what it can be called. It does not feel as such. It feels like he is dragging himself to his own grave.

            “Thomas.” James cannot look at him. He does not know where to look. “There are things…that I must tell you.”

            “No—James, I didn’t mean—“ Thomas leans forward, trying to catch James’ gaze. “I do not seek any manner of reckoning from you, I’m not speaking about you—“

            James meets his eyes and says roughly, “You might be.” Thomas pauses, and James straightens his shoulders. Old habits. “I must…tell you things. And then…you can decide if you think I should be free from this place.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you should. I know you. James. I know you.”

            _Do you_? James wonders.

           

III.

 

He cannot not stand it a second longer. James sits, tugging the shirt up and over his head. He tosses it to the end of the bed, a sweat-logged mess.

            The weather is different here. He has become used to the heat of the West Indies. This, though—it is a smothering, wet thing. It is like the air itself sweats.

            It has finally gone dark, the light drained from all the cracks. Instead it is black and hot and he is alone. He has no idea how many hours it is since Thomas left.

            That Thomas did leave is unsurprising. He said nothing while James spoke, while James laid bare his many sins. Only he grew paler and paler, until his skin was an ashen hue that was alarming. When James finished, Thomas merely sat moment longer.

            Then he raised his hand a few inches and said, “Excuse me,” and walked out of the cabin.

            And that was three, four hours ago, perhaps. If he were to never come back, never look James in the face again, it would not be unreasonable. It would be terrible, yes. It would be heartbreaking. More.

            But still, James would have the knowledge that Thomas lived. There is at least that.

            He runs his hands over the stubble of his hair, shifting uncomfortably against the mattress. Another unexpected thing. One after another after another.

            James never thought he would have to answer for anything. There was no one he believed he owed an explanation to. He had done what he had done, and he would die, and that would be the end of it. There were no apologies to be made, no relationships to be mended, just the cause. Only that. The further it went, the less there was to him, and that was fine. He would just become another part in a larger story, and he would disappear. Others who were better than him would come to the fore. That’s how it was supposed to have been. There would be no judgment, for who was fit to judge him?

            In all creation, there would have only ever been the one. It sometimes came to James, when he least expected it, the questions: _what would Thomas think of this. What would he think of all that I have done, that I’ve become_. He would brush the thoughts away, telling himself that it was foolishness. Now he must wonder if perhaps he could not stand what the answers might have been.

            “Fuck,” James says to the empty, humid night. For good measure, he says it again. “Fuck.”

            What if it is all too much? Of course it’s too much. No man could hear what James had to say and merely accept it as though it were trivial. For so long, James has been detached from—

            From what? What can it be called? Civilization? Normalcy?

            Sanity?

            Had he never known about Thomas, these are not things he would ask himself. He knows this. He knows it, and for the first time in he cannot recall how long, it shakes him.

            He goes still at the approach of footsteps. They come to the door, then stop.

            James does not dare breathe, nor move. He lies on his back, gazing up into the dark, waiting. Fielding worries that never occurred to him before.

            Eventually, the door opens. James will not insult either of their intelligence by pretending to be asleep. He gazes at Thomas’ silhouette, unable to see if Thomas is watching him, but knowing that he is.

            Thomas pushes open the small window that sits in the door. It opens from the outside, another reminder that they can never be truly alone in this place. Thomas closes the door, air able to enter the cabin at least. Some light as well.

            As James’ eyes adjust to it, Thomas goes to the chair. He picks it up, and brings it to the bedside. Setting it down, he sits. And he sighs, long, exhausted. Head bowed.

            James feels sickened. He sits up. So this, long last, is what true judgment feels like. How arrogant, to believe he would escape it. That he was somehow above this.

            Thomas says quietly, “Where…do I begin?” He lets out a small breath. “Honestly. Where can I possibly begin?”

            James does not reply. He said his piece. He spoke and spoke until his voice was sore. Now it is Thomas’ turn for words.

            “My father. Miranda. Peter. _You_. The things done—in my memory. In my name. I do not know where I should start. Where it would ever end. If it could ever end. I have spent these hours wracking my brain, trying to understand what response I should give you. Every single one was inadequate.”

            James gives a brusque nod. Yes.

            “I loved my father. And I hated him. I hated him for what he did to me, but more for what he did to you, to her. Yet I still loved him, because he was my father. And you killed him. You and Miranda. She was not there, but she was as much the author as you, and I cannot—begin to convey my disappointment. In you. In her. You not only killed him, but some woman. You didn’t even know her name, only that she travelled with my father. As you tell me, she is one of the many faceless, nameless people you—murdered. You ended their lives, all for—naught. You cannot even count the dead, and I see that it does not weigh on you. I do not—recognize that. Not in you. You. Of all people.” Thomas gives his head a shake, and says hoarsely, “You were supposed to take care of her.”

            It hurts more than any blow James has taken in years. A curiosity, that words can cut so much deeper than blades ever could.

            Thomas continues, angrily, “You were supposed to take care of one _another_. Not—this is not what I wanted. You both knew that this is not what I would have wanted. You fed off each other’s misery and grief, and how many suffered for it? How many suffered because I was too bold, because I could not see when to hold my tongue, to bide my time?”

            “Thomas—“

            “I share my part in this, and you cannot convince me otherwise. There must be some flaw in me that helped create this world you tell me of. You both walked down this terrible path for love of me, and that is more burden than I should have to bear, and you know this. I told her to make sure that you were safe. I assumed that you would do the same for her. That you would—I knew that you would be unhappy, that you would grieve, but it never occurred to me that this— _this_ would come to pass because of me. That I helped to make you this way.”

            Thomas’ hands have become fists on his thighs. It is a thing James has never seen from him before. He has no idea if Thomas has ever struck a person in anger. No. His Thomas never would have. This man is unknown to him in a great many ways.

            “And now she is dead,” Thomas says bitterly. “They told me that she died of fever. In Scotland. I held to the idea that she had years of safety, that the two of you were together, and instead—instead I know that she died after hard years, far from home, believing I was dead, and her last moments were ones of fury and heartbreak and I do not know how I am supposed to forgive you for that, let alone myself.”

            James has not felt like this since the moment he realized that Silver had betrayed them. This sense of everything tipping off its axis. It was too much to take then. It is too much to take now.

            Frustrated, Thomas says, “We could do this for days. Weeks. Until the horns are sounded, and we would likely find no resolution. I know there is even more that you have not said. The details that are lost to you. You have given me broad strokes and it is still a nightmare. I cannot lie and tell you otherwise.”

            James nods again, only this time it a small thing, a slight tilt of the head. It is hard to get breath into his lungs. He only just found Thomas again. To lose him so soon after would not only be an agony. It would be a death blow.

            “But there is time. We have that. We will have that in abundance.”

            It takes a few seconds, but James lifts his head.

            Thomas loosens his hands. He flexes his fingers, then murmurs, “Come here.”

            Another hesitation, but James swings his legs over the side of the bed, so that he is seated face to face with Thomas. At first he is unsure if Thomas could bear his touch in this moment, so he does not know what to do with his legs, only Thomas bumps his knee against the inside of James’ thigh.

            “You cannot expect to come to terms with all you have told me in the span of a night,” Thomas says. “You cannot expect me to not be angry. To forgive. And I see in you that you don’t expect that. Thank God for that. It is one of the reasons why I will make every effort to reckon with what you have told me. You’ve described to me a man that I don’t recognize. But I see in you still—“ Thomas reaches out, brushing his hand down James’ arm. A moment passes, and Thomas rubs his thumb over the ink moon. His eyes find James’ in the dark. “I see _you_. Regardless.”

            It is not absolution. It is better. It is a chance, and it is so much more than James deserves. He is struck speechless. He finds himself twisting his mouth, swallowing more than is necessary.

            “I will leave here with you,” Thomas says. “We will leave this place, and will learn to know one another again. We know parts of another, but there are differences—not only in you. I am a different man than I once was. I have my own sins. I have done things in this place that I would never have imagined myself doing. I want you to know the man that I am, not just this—idea of what I was. And I want to know you. I want you to know yourself. To remember who you are. What you are.”

            “What am I?” James whispers.

            Thomas’ nail scrapes gently over the ink embedded in James’ skin. “A good man,” Thomas replies.

            It is too much. James begins to shake his head, and he does not stop.

            Thomas puts his hands to the sides of James’ head, saying firmly, “We will leave this place. We will not live in the past, the present, or the future alone, but all of them. It is the only way forward. If we are not to lose our minds, it is the only way. James. I want to learn to live with this. I want to live. I want _you_ to live. You are all that I have left. You cannot think I would give up now.” Thomas strokes James’ cheek, the way he did a lifetime ago. “We are not so changed that you would believe I could ever give up on you, no matter the difficulty.”

            James leans forward, and Thomas rests his chin upon James’ head. He feels a hand rub over his back. To be touched. To be touched like this, in this moment, by this man. How has this come to be?

            “I will do whatever you ask of me,” James says. There is no other he would say that to. There never has been. “Tell me what you need of me, and it is yours.”

            Hand hooked to the back of James’ neck, Thomas murmurs, “I want to go far from people. Far from where any others are. And I want to stay there.”

            James closes his eyes.

            “So that I don’t harm anyone else,” he says tiredly.

            “Yes,” Thomas replies. “In part. But also because I am selfish. Because I know that you and I will be the work of a lifetime, and I will share you with no other. Because I want to be free of other people. Because, because, because. Because it is what we must do.”

            James asks, “Do you hate me?”

            Thomas strokes his neck. “I don’t know, James. I do not have the answer to that. Or to almost any of the questions this night has raised. What I do know is this: you could never change so much that I would not love you.”

            He pulls James close, and James cannot return the words. He has said them already, by confessing.

 

IV.

 

There is the cry of some animal in the distance. They both lift their heads, waiting for another sound to follow. None is forthcoming.

            James looks to Thomas, who continues to watch the woods a moment longer. The moonlight filters through the trees off his face. He catches James’ eyes. James gives a short, tight smile, then turns his gaze away, sticking the last of the stale bread into his mouth.

            They are two weeks gone from the plantation. They have walked so many miles that James can feel a shift in the temperature, and see a change in the make of the trees. The nights are chill enough that more often than not they end up wrapped in each others’ arms beneath their blanket, regardless of what might have happened earlier in the day.

            James has learned what to press Thomas on and what not. He will not want to discuss the particulars of his past on the plantation. James finds more luck asking him about what he has read, and even then, it often takes Thomas a moment to reply, as though he is searching for a memory barely retained.

            More often than not, James is the one answering questions. When he is asked, he does not lie. He does not evade. Sometimes the answers satisfy Thomas, and sometimes they do not. Sometimes he will go silent for hours afterward. And sometimes he will be furious.

            When that happens, James must struggle to keep his composure. He is unused to being yelled at. No one would have dared, if they expected to walk away with their limbs intact. He understands, though, that Thomas’ anger is merited, that Thomas does not see things as he would, or like the people who James had surrounded himself with. So he usually holds his tongue.

            Not always. Twice now, he has exploded. The first, in helpless anger, he protested, “I cannot change it! What would you have me do?”

            “ _Listen_ ,” Thomas answered, and James’ anger evaporated. It had been a long time since anyone gave Thomas their ear.

            The second time occurred yesterday, and James was tired and his feet were sore and their food would soon be running low again, he knew, and instead of deflecting a pointed comment, he snapped that Thomas had not been there.

            And that…well, it set things off. It was the first proper shouting match they ever had with one another. Out in the middle of the woods, in stolen clothes, in boots that were wearing through on the soles, they had shouted and accused and said completely irrational things to one another.

            Today had been spent in silence. James had apologized when they woke, and so had Thomas, but James could see that he wanted to think, so he let him be. Only a handful of words had passed between them, and only when absolutely necessary.

            Now it is dark, and they should sleep soon.

            He realizes that Thomas is still watching him. James looks over, curious.

            Even in the low light, Thomas’ gaze is penetrating. James has to wonder what Thomas thinks he sees, whether James is man or monster or both. Perhaps something else entirely.

            Thomas blinks, then leans forward. James says and does nothing. Thomas does as he has always done when he is about to kiss James. His right hand goes to James’ face, slipping along his jaw, fingers hooking behind James’ ear, thumb in front.

            James does not want to hope. Thomas has kissed him a few times since that third day on the plantation, but they are always brief, sad things, over before they seem to have even begun. Only this time Thomas sets his mouth to James’, parted, his hold on James strengthening.

            James cannot not help himself. His response is immediate and instinctual. He presses back against Thomas, hungry for a thing he has not been allowed. For a moment, he worries that Thomas will back away, but Thomas only takes a breath before pushing into the kiss further.

            James finds that he no longer has control of his hands. They go where they want, around Thomas’ back, into his hair, begging for him to be closer. Then demanding it.

            Their teeth clink against one another, inelegantly, but the moment only serves to spur them on, as though permission has been given for them to not be gentle with one another. James growls from low in his throat, chasing Thomas’ warm breath on his mouth. Thomas is pulling James’ belt open, fighting with it one handed, and James pushes his way into Thomas’ breeches. Neither of them waiting, neither of them asking.

            They rock together, but to no syncopated rhythm. Each of them are desperate in their own way for the other. James whispers Thomas’ name as strong, clever fingers stroke him. Thomas says nothing at all.

 

V.

 

When they are done, still in their clothes, heaving breaths against each other, James realizes something. Thomas is lying on top of him, shaking just as James is. His hand, though, has wrapped around James’ bicep. Where his ink moon is.

 

VI.

“I’ve a question for you.”

            Thomas looks up from where he lies at James’ side. He smiles slightly, then props up his head. “I shall ready myself.”

            They are in the middle of a small clearing. On land they own. Purchased with money stolen from the plantation that they have carried across colonies.

            There is nothing here yet. Only ground and sky and trees, a small creek near enough that James can hear its occasional whisper. What will be in this place will only be what they make of it.

            They lie naked on the ground. Thomas’ skin is smudged with dirt, a thing that never fails to strike James as odd. He should be used to the sight, but after so many years of picturing Thomas in his mind, it becomes difficult to reconcile with the image of a gentle lord who was always immaculately clean.

            James looks down to where Thomas’ other hand has gone. His thumb swipes slowly back and forth over the moon on James’ upper arm.

            “Why is that always where you touch me?”

            Thomas glances down, surprised, and pulls his hand away. “I apologize. I did not know you minded.”

            “I did not say it did. Only that I wondered at how you seem drawn to it.” James studies Thomas’ face. The beard that has slowly covered his face, blond and grey. His eyes, the same shade of blue that followed James through dreams. “Does it really bother you so?”

            With a blink, Thomas says, “It does not bother me at all.” He rubs at his nose, then turns onto his back, dropping with a tired but not unhappy breath. James cannot help but notice that some of the weight has lifted from his shoulders. When they bought this small stretch of land, it was the first that James had seen Thomas excited about anything. It took little prompting for Thomas to tell him what he wanted to build, what he saw in his mind’s eye. What he didn’t ask for surprised James, but there is still much to learn about one another. “A coincidence. And I fear you will think me silly and sentimental for it.”

            “Do you not think we could stand to have something like that?” 

            Thomas thinks about it. A breeze comes along, and James watches his flesh go out in goose pimples. He reaches over, smoothing a hand over the skin.

            After a moment, Thomas admits, “It was a thing I used to console myself with. At first, I could barely think at all for how overwhelming my emotions were. My anger at my life being stolen from me, and my defiance—my arrogance. My conviction. But it paled in comparison to my worry for you and Miranda. My yearning for you both. God, James, I cannot—begin to describe the size of it to you. You filled every piece of me, every moment. The both of you. I held close to the thought of you, using it like fuel to carry me through each day, each indignity, but at the same time it made those things impossible. I was being driven mad by the loss of you. I would hold your faces in my mind to strengthen my resolve, but it made living unbearable. I knew that I could not continue as I was, or I would go insane. Or I would die from grief. So…I put you both away.”

            James looks over, but Thomas does not look back. “Any time you came to mind, I would push the thought away. I would hear her voice and I would silence it. I did all that I could to forget you during the days. I would count to the highest number that I could, or recite books to myself that we had never read together. I would make up stories to tell myself, nonsense things with nonsense words. I would think of the women that I had before Miranda. I fucked other men so that I would forget your touch.”

            James can feel a ticking in his jaw, and Thomas says quietly, “You’ve still never had another man, have you.”

            No. He never would. James shakes his head.

            “Faithful. Ever faithful. I was not. Not in body or mind. During the days, I made you invisible to me. I made myself forget so that I could survive. But at night…I would go outside, and I would look to the sky, and every thought I had denied, I would allow myself to think it. It is a terrible cliché, and I will sound like some lovesick youth to say it, but I would look to the stars and the moon, and I would think, even from a world away, this is the same sky they look at. We are not so far from one another if we can share this one thing. I would watch the sky and ache for you and let myself hurt in all the ways I couldn’t otherwise.

            “And as time went on…the hurt was not so great. Time did its terrible work. It was not so much a struggle to keep the memories of you and her at bay. It became so that I did not have to go outside each night to search for our common ground. But every time I saw the stars, James…every time I saw the moon in the sky, I thought of you. I mourned for you. I remembered you and all that we had shared, and there were nights that I wept for all that had been lost to me. When they told me Miranda had died, every night for a month I sat under the stars and remembered. Remembered, and I hurt, but I celebrated the memory of her as well. My partner in all things. As you were. I thought of you, still under the same sky, and all I could wish was that if we were never reunited again beneath it, we would someday in the life beyond, if one so exists.”

            At last, Thomas looks over, a small smile turning up his mouth. “And after all this time, you appeared, as though from nowhere. And you brought the sky with you.”

            Time. So much time has passed them by.

            Thomas turns onto his side to face James. “Do you hate me?” he asks softly.

            Brow furrowing, James answers, “Never.” He finds Thomas’ hand, twining their fingers together, and pulls it up onto his chest.

            “Good,” Thomas murmurs. “That has bothered me for quite some time.”

            His fingertips trace the outline of the crescent moon. James wants to ask what Thomas thinks of him, if some measure of forgiveness has been reached. He understands, though, that Thomas has told him such without the use of words.

 

VII.

 

James squints up from where he sits, hatchet in hands. “Never?”

            With a soft snort, Thomas answers, “I did not say that.” He swings the pick down over his head, loosening the earth. Truth be told, James sometimes gets distracted, watching Thomas work. Thomas glances over, and grins crookedly. “You look rather horrified. Are you so eager for company other than my own?”

            James smiles back, and echoes, “I did not say that.”

            Thomas leans against the pick. He pushes sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. It is becoming increasingly long. Sometimes, when he sleeps and James is still awake, he will stroke Thomas’ hair, rub the locks between his fingertips.

            “I suppose you imagined that I would want for company. That I would want noise and people and what I once had.”

            “Not precisely. I thought you might want more than silence.”

            Thomas tilts back his head, and the sun pours down upon his face. He looks perfectly content in the moment.

            “I’ve become accustomed to the quiet. That and—to be perfectly candid with you, James—I would rather die than return to captivity. Maintaining our distance from crowded places will increase the likelihood of our avoiding that fate.”

            James continues to scrape twigs off the log before him. “I will not let that happen to you again.”

            “And what of you?”

            “What of me?”

            “Does the quiet bother you?”

            “No. It has been some time since I was allowed any.” James thinks, and admits, “The months before the end, the most peace I had was in a jail cell with a book.”

            “Do you miss them?”

            “Who?”

            “Your friends.”

            James raises his head and says, “I had no friends.”

            Thomas lifts his shoulders. “Allies, then.”

            With a shake of the head, James finishes off the log, then pushes himself to his feet. “The man I considered my partner in my endeavours betrayed me. He betrayed all of us, even the woman he loved, all for selfishness. That maybe I could understand, but he kept the knowledge of your survival from me, and he sold my freedom just as yours was. There is no love lost there.”

            He pushes the log with his feet towards the pile of others. They will make up the walls of the cabin.

            When he turns, he finds that Thomas has arched a brow at him. “I have wondered—you and he—?”

            It takes a moment for the implication to hit, but when it does, James barks loud enough to frighten the birds. “Absolutely not. Besides. You know there has been no one besides you.”

            “I’m not asking if you did anything about it. Just—there seems to be an attachment there.”

            “I thought him loyal. I thought him trustworthy. Both of which I was mistaken about. As for anything else?” James thinks about it, then shudders. “Not if his prick had been the last in the West Indies.” He chuckles at the notion, going to strip another log.

            He hears Thomas swinging the pick again. “What do you think happened to him?”

            “I’ve no idea,” James replies, not particularly caring. He grabs a felled tree by a thick branch and drags it into the clearing. “Whether Madi took him back or not, I could not say. Whatever power he wielded, he gave away by showing his neck to the enemy. His punishment has only just begun. His influence will wane, his myth will disappear, and he will just be a sad forgotten sailor, living through stories he tells of old glories that the children will only ever half believe.”

            “And you?” James looks back, to find that shrewd gaze once more. Thomas asks, “How will you be remembered?”

            James gives it a thought, and replies, “Perhaps as nothing more than a cautionary tale. A story to scare impressionable minds. Perhaps as the most fearsome man to ever hoist the black. Who’s to say?”

            Before he can set to work again, Thomas says, “And are you proud of that?”

            Straightening, James first asks himself what answer Thomas could be looking for. Then he realizes that Thomas only searches for the truth.

            “I don’t know,” James says honestly. “Maybe.”

            Thomas thinks about it a moment. Then he nods, stepping back and tightening his hold on the pick. “Back to work with you,” he teases. “Summer will not last forever.”

           

VIII.

 

The wind rattles the shutters, autumn arriving with a scream in the night. They pay it no mind. The house is complete. It is the first night they have a house of their own, and everything is done.

            James smacks his head back against the wall hard enough that he can hear it above the wind. He does not have the time to be dazed, because Thomas’ mouth fastens to his once more. James regains his hold on Thomas’ shoulders as Thomas rolls his hips upwards.

            He can be a different person for this man, the only one worth changing for. This man pierces him through and through. Always has and always will. Things are different now, yes—time has passed, their bodies changed, the world a far stranger one than that in which they met—but this is not a thing that James will ever lose. Thomas can have him in every way imaginable, and James has never, not for one solitary second, been ashamed of that.

            It is not that he just doesn’t care what others think. It is that for him, no one else exists in all creation.

            He breathes Thomas’ name and cries out.

 

 

The dream that wakes him is an unhappy one.

            James swallows, raising his eyes. The wind that raged on as they fell asleep has disappeared. The world has fallen silent. In this moment, he would have preferred some chaos to distract him.

            He feels Thomas behind him, curled against James’ back. Sometimes they fall asleep together. Other times Thomas will stay up with a book, sitting by the candle. If James asks, Thomas will read to him, just as he once did, in what seems another age.

            James carefully pushes the blankets back and eases off the bed. He wears a nightshirt and nothing more, too tired for anything else after their coupling. One thing that is very different, and not unwelcome, is how much stronger Thomas is. Once upon a time, James worried about hurting him when they came together. Now sometimes Thomas hurts him, and he is always stricken afterwards, though James never minds.

            James treads across the cold earthen floor. He takes his cloak from off the hook by the door, pulling it over his shoulders, then quickly slips outside.

            It is cold, but it is not an unbearable thing. They have made a little step to sit upon, and so James does. The cabin is crude, but between their combined knowledge they were able to make this place that will keep them safe through the winter. It will keep out the animals that roam these parts.

            Some wisps of clouds float across the night sky, but they are not nearly enough to blot out the moon and stars. The moon is waxing, three quarters full. It shines so brightly that it illuminates the clearing in which they have made their house.

            When spring comes, they will have a garden out front. Thomas knows how to do that.

            James had not told him how the thought brought him back. He thought of coming back to the house in Nassau, and how often he would find Miranda in the front yard, toiling away.

            Miranda. Who James first knew in all her finery. The most exquisite woman he had ever met. The fiercest person he will likely ever know. Reduced to working the earth to put food on her table.

            She is the one who he sees in dreams. Sometimes her hair is the thick shade of sable, glowing in the light. Others, it has gone grey, pulled back modestly. People call her witch. He fights for her. He never wins.

            There is no fairness in this life. If there were some greater power keeping score, it would not be he sitting in this place, Thomas inside, the future a thing unknown but not bearing untold misery. No one, not even the man lying in bed, would say that he deserves what he has been given. He did not spark a revolution, no. He did not change the world. But he has this. And God help him, he thinks it might be worth so much _more_.

            James looks up at the moon, the beacon of the sky. He wonders how many people look upon it and give it some meaning.

            _All of us_ , he thinks.

            When the door opens, James glances back at Thomas’ ankles. He is not in a mood to speak. He thinks that if he did, it could be a dangerous thing.

            Thomas pauses. He reaches down, petting James’ shaggy hair. The both of them have long hair, and beards. Looking more and more like people of the land, and not like the men they once were.

            Thomas sits down at James’ side, and James can feel his curious gaze. Thomas puts his hand between James’ shoulders, stroking up and down.

            When James speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I miss her.”

            Thomas’ hand stills.

            James watches the moon, perfect and pristine, hanging above them. Far from harm. “I have said my farewells to her so many times in my mind. And still…she will not let me be.” He shakes his head. “It should not be I who is here with you now. It should have been her. I know that. For all I have done…I have my regrets, though not as many as you think I ought to, nor perhaps the ones you think I should. But she is the one…if I could change things, Thomas, that is what I would. I would give her to you in my stead. Only I cannot. And I am so sorry.” James nods, feeling how foreign apology tastes upon his lips. “I am so very sorry.”

            He waits on Thomas’ reply, wondering if he has destroyed months of cautious progress.

            Only Thomas begins to rub his back again. He says, “I miss her too.” He scoots closer to James, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “Do—you remember, the first time she came to your quarters?”

            “I do.”

            “She told me that night about it. About everything. She was so happy. I was so jealous. She was always far more practical than I. She got to you first. She was so pleased with herself.” Thomas looks up to the sky. “Did either of us tell you about the day we met?”

            They never had. So Thomas tells him, and it is so indicative of the both of them, and James and Thomas tell each other stories of Miranda for hours, as the stars and moon makes their slow progress above them. When Thomas grows tired, James wraps an arm around his shoulder, propping him up.

            They say her name, her beautiful name, over and over and over.

 

X.

 

Thomas asks, “How does it work?” and at first James does not understand. They have had another quiet spell, following what threatened to become an argument after more questions asked and answered. James stands at the basin, washing the sweat from his body with a cloth.

            Then he sees what Thomas is looking at. His moon.

            “A very complex process,” James says.

            Thomas gazes at him from under his brows. “Your mockery is noted, sir, though not appreciated.” His smile says otherwise. It is a welcome sight, a sign that this latest storm has passed.

            “Ink and bone.”

            “Pardon me?”

            “A piece of bone, sharpened to a fine point. Dipped in ink. A small hammer to drive the bone beneath the skin. And the work is repeated until one has a shape of one’s liking.”

            The expression on Thomas’ face is somewhere between intrigued and horrified. James grins outright, drying himself off. “Why on earth would you submit to such a thing?”

            James shrugs, pulling on his night shirt instead of the sodden thing he’s worn while chopping wood. “A quick way to gain credibility. Despite the stories they tell, not many men carry such markings.” He thinks of the eye on the back of Gates’ head. It pulls James away from the moment, backwards into memory.

            “And why did you choose that particular symbol?”

            “To be perfectly honest?” James goes to toss the murky water out the front door. Once that’s done, he sets the basin down on the table, next to where Thomas is sitting. “The man with the tools did not appear to have the steadiest of hands, and I thought this would be a thing even he couldn’t fuck up.”

            After a moment, Thomas smiles, and pats him on the thigh. “Ever the romantic.”

            He stands, going to light a candle, and James glances down at his covered arm. It was an affectation, truth be told. Same as the stud in his ear. A signal to others of what he was. In the beginning, what he wanted others to believe he was. The act of building his own narrative.

            “A happy accident,” James says, “That you enjoy it so much.”

            “Indeed.”

            The idea occurs to James, for the first time, that perhaps Thomas would like a mark of his own. As soon as the notion strikes him, he bats it away.

            This ink is a reminder of James’ past. Of a life he threw himself into, that Thomas abhors. It’s an idiotic idea, to think he would want any part of it.

           

XI.

 

James shivers, automatically pulling the blanket further up his shoulder. Then he opens his eyes, wondering what the _hell_ is going on.

            It is daytime. No surprise that he slept so late. They walked back from the closest town last night. Thomas will not stay the night there. He is polite to the people, but James can see a skittishness to him that is unmistakeable, and heartbreaking. They arrived at the house close to midnight, perhaps later. No telling from the sky, which had clouded over.

            Thomas had held his hand for some of the way, and said once, “You must think me foolish.”

            “Then we are well matched,” James replied, and even in the dark he could sense Thomas’ pleased smile.

            The door is cracked open, sharp wind piercing the indoors. Thomas’ boots are gone, but not his cloak. Concerned, James rises from the bed, and walks quickly but cautiously to the door, peering around the side.

            Thomas stands a short distance from the house, in his night clothes and boots, looking up as the sky floats downwards. Large, wet snowflakes make a gentle descent. Only the barest layer covers the ground, and might still yet melt.

            Thomas has his hands slightly out, capturing the flakes. His head tilts upwards, his back to James.

            “What in God’s name are you doing?”

            Thomas turns, mouth upturned. “Do you know how many years it is since I’ve seen snow?”

            James wants to tell him not to be sentimental, that it is just _snow_ , but he does not have the heart. “I would wager more than a few.”

            “That would be correct.” Thomas shoves his hair back, closing his eyes.

            James finds himself remarking, “You look happy.”

            Opening his eyes, Thomas pauses before saying, as though it were obvious, “I _am_ happy.”

            “Good.” James raises his brow, putting a hand to the door. “Well, when you’ve decided to stop this nonsense, I’ll have breakfast on.”

            “James.”

            He stops, door half pulled across.

            Thomas says, “I am happy to be here with you. You do know that, I hope.” He lifts his shoulders. “I know—perhaps I have not said it as I should. These last months have been—peculiar at best. I know things now that, I admit, I could have lived happily without the knowledge of. And yet I would gladly take them all, because it means you’ve been returned to me.” Wrapping his arms around himself, Thomas squints at James, as though he is focusing on each word. As though it is important that each be just so. “We might be different men than when we were young, but some things—regardless of what has been or will be, regardless of knowledge or reckonings or uncertainty, one thing remains as it was, despite it all. That is my love for you. It is unchanged. It is _unchanging_.”

            James stands a moment. Then he holds out a hand. “Come inside now. Where it’s warm.”

            Thomas walks across the yard to him, taking James’ hand. James gives Thomas’ fingers a kiss, his cheeks burning, before gently pushing him inside, and he closes the door on the newly arrived winter.

 

XII.

 

The needle to Thomas’ skin, James says, “I have never done this before in my life.”

            “So you keep saying,” Thomas responds with an eye roll. “Shall we proceed or not?”

            “My hands are not as level as they once were.”

            “Nor mine; however, I suppose I shall have to attempt it myself if you do not consider yourself up to the task.”

            Shaking his head, James mutters, “Folly.”

            “To argue with me? One would think you would know that by—“ Thomas hisses as James taps at the end of the makeshift instrument.

            “I warned you.”

            “It’s fine,” Thomas says blithely. “Proceed.”

            Arching a brow, James says, “Oh, yes, of course, sir.”

            Thomas sits with his arm rested upon the table. James frowns as he gently taps ink into his skin, following the outline he has made. All he has to go on are memories, watching other men get markings. He uses a needle made from bone, a bear he felled several weeks ago. They have learned how to use the parts for as many things as they possibly can.

            Leave it to Thomas to suggest this. This thing that James thought would have repelled him. But no, Thomas was insistent upon it.

            “What should I be concerned with?” he had laughed at James’ demurrals. “Respectability?”

            Little dots of blood well upward with each motion, and James does not care for it. He may have hewn heads from bodies, but the idea of leaving Thomas with any manner of injury leaves him distressed. He hesitates to wipe the blood away at first, uncertain if it will affect the ink.

            “This is a damned stupid idea,” James mutters.

            “Perhaps,” Thomas replies, “but I am a hopeless romantic. How could I not be after all you and I have survived?”

            A valid question, indeed.

 

XIII.

 

They sit on the steps together. Thomas is between James legs, leaning back against his chest. James is careful not to jostle his arm. It is tender, under a bandage so the blood does not soil his shirt. The night is a cold one, but the sky is clear.

            Thomas’ mark is not identical to James’. When he saw what James had done, he had frowned and asked about the difference. Why a crescent moon held within a larger circle?

            Embarrassed, James admitted, “I am the dark piece that is never whole unless I am with you.”

            That had gotten him a long look, then Thomas rested their foreheads together, cradling James’ face in the way that he would always love best.

            Thomas shifts slightly against James, burrowing into his warmth. “What do you think will become of us?”

            “I do not know,” James admits. “I have long since resolved to follow your lead.”

            “This is a temporary solution to a long-term question. We cannot stay here forever. We cannot hide forever.”

            “I don’t suppose we can. Though it holds a certain appeal.”

            “Someday…perhaps I will be able to bear the sound of voices. The faces of strangers. Perhaps.” He bumps his head against James’ chin. “Until then, though…I like this very much.” He wraps his fingers around James’ arms, his eyes sweeping the starlit sky. The full moon beams down upon them from the west. “I never thought that I would have this. All those nights I sat beneath this sky, I never thought I would be so blessed to share it with you. Yet here we are. Somehow, James, here I am here with you.”

            “The best part of me was always with you. As it ever has been.”

            Thomas smiles faintly at that. He says, “Do you know what I thought? When I looked at the sky, and thought of you?”

            James bends his head downwards, bringing his lips near to Thomas’ ear. “Dwell on the beauty of life,” he whispers. “Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.”

            Thomas closes his eyes, relaxing entirely into James’ embrace. James kisses his temple, and breathes in Thomas’ scent, feels the brush of his greying hair.

            They sit beneath star and moon, blessed and strange, running together. As it should be.


End file.
